


Blackbird

by AliLamba



Category: Veronica Mars - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ballet, Alternate Universe - High School, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-22
Updated: 2016-03-30
Packaged: 2018-05-28 11:09:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6326650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AliLamba/pseuds/AliLamba
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>LoVe, Ballet AU.</p>
<p>Veronica moves across country for her senior year of high school, because apparently her life wasn't challenging enough already. At least when she fails she'll be wearing a tutu.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I **love** ballet stories. I fucking love them. So yeah – March VMficrecs offers the excuse to do it and yeah, look at me, I do what I want. Cliché? What cliché! I do what I want!
> 
> Also let's all establish now that I have never once been a dancer and I barely lived in New York in college so if this is one hundred and ten percent wrong about everything...then I don't want to be right.

 

 

 

> _i. you were only waiting for this moment to be free_

 

  1. _you were only waiting for this moment to be free_



Veronica has told herself the line so many times, it sounds like it ought to be her middle name. Maybe her PIN number, or her home address.

_Don’t be nervous._

Whatever it sounded like, it should’ve helped.

She’s just never been awesome at following her own advice. Advice like, don’t run away from home just because of —

“So, just for laughs,” a voice makes her jump, and Veronica looks to the side and finds a tall guy with shaggy brown hair. “What do you think would happen if we put out some donut holes? Would there be…crying? Confusion? Mass hysteria?”

Veronica allows a shaky grin.

“I think we’d have a riot on our hands, totally.”

The tall guy grins back. “ _No more carbs!_ ” he chants quietly, miming what it would be like to hold a picket sign. He’s got a full plate of snacks in his other hand.

She giggles. It feels odd, mixed in with the nerves, like touching your tongue to metal. Not wholly unpleasant, but – odd. She looks closer at this person who is talking to her, for whatever his personal reason. He has the look of a dancer, surely, skinny like dancing helped him lose a lot of weight, which probably meant he hasn’t been doing it all his life, probably only started when a younger sister started doing it and he was in that prepubescent _omg boobies_ phase. He probably wears a cup for a lot of reasons.

_Stop it, Veronica._

“My name’s Piz,” he volunteers, and Veronica has to blink to try to commit the name to memory.

“Pez?”

“ _Piz_ ,” he enunciates. “Well, okay, Stosh – Stosh _Piz_ narski, but I prefer to go by Piz.”

“I can imagine.”

He blows some air out pinched lips. “Oh trust me, I’ve heard them all.”

She grins again. “I’m going to guess _Piss_ was a favorite circa middle school.”

“You have no idea.”

They sit in silence for a minute, both staring out at the crowd. A collective has started near the middle, growing like a black hole, sucking in stragglers to make the mass grow bigger and bigger. Veronica feels, somehow, inert to their pull, in part because they look so happy without her, in part because the lithe way they move even at an orientation mixer has her insecure.

Because this is it: this is the endgame. She’s looking out at a sea of people she’ll have to best in the coming year if she’ll ever have a change of achieving her dream: to dance for the New York City Ballet. All these people hanging around the punch bowl are also ballet dancers, also enrolled for their final year at The School of American Ballet, maybe _the_ _most_ prestigious ballet school in the world. Not only does this school literally share an address with the Lincoln Center, not only is every member of staff an alumni of New York City Ballet, but every year, every graduating class is streamlined into an audition process _designed_ to accept the top SAB students into its prestigious ranks.

So yeah. The fact that no one here looks like they have more than 2% body fat is really bumming her out.

“My name’s Veronica,” she finally says, on a heavy sigh. “Veronica from Neptune, California, and totally out of my depth.”

Piz is munching on carrot sticks. He’s quiet for all of two seconds.

“You could almost make a joke about it being like another _planet_.”

She groans. “Remind me never to tell you that my last name is Mars.”

“Oh. You got it, Spaceman.”

“You’re welcome, _Pez_.”

And at least one thing goes right, right off the bat, because it’s an easy, instant friendship.

 

 

 

 

“I don’t think I love my roommate.”

Piz looks up at her from the oatmeal he’s poking at. It’s somewhat slimy, but Veronica was already too anxious to eat. The slimy oatmeal doesn’t change her mind.

“Who’s your roommate again?”

Veronica doesn’t even want to say the name. “ _Jackie Cook_.”

“Oh,” Piz says, eyes round. “She’s super hot.”

Veronica rolls her eyes and puts her head down on folded hands.

“I mean, she’s a bitch too, but – “

Veronica opens one eye and glares with it.

“I mean, no, she’s just total bitch. No redeeming qualities. I hear her parents have a place on Central Park West. What a bunch of jerks.”

 

 

Veronica is glad to have a friend, she really is. It’s helpful when she has to walk into a room full of ballet dancers and that clique is hulking like a hive in the corner, Jackie Cook its queen bee. She doesn’t make eye contact. She pulls at her black leotard instead, hoping she doesn’t look out of place. Piz is indeed wearing a cup. But then of course – all the guys are wearing a cup under their formal practice blacks.

“Okay class!” a voice calls out, and Veronica turns her head so she has a face to go with instructor _Mallory Dent._ “Welcome to Hell Week. I’m Miss Dent, but I’m going to let you call me Mallory for now. We’ll be together for six hours a day, every day, and _That Bitch Mallory_ has a better ring to it, I think.”

Veronica smiles, a little hesitantly.

“This will be the only week you’ll be mixed together all day long. Next week is when your academic classes start, at either Professional Children’s School or PPAS, and then we’ll be splitting you up into boys and girls except for Saturday classes. If anyone’s had any big discoveries about themselves over summer vacation and would like a specific reassignment, please let someone know.” It’s only kind of a joke. “ _Veronica_ ,”

Her heart stops beating. She can’t help feel like she’s already done something wrong, like she was supposed to wear pink instead of black but _everyone’s wearing black_ , so –

“Let’s everyone congratulate Veronica Mars from California. She _dominated_ our summer program and was offered a scholarship here, joining all you seniors in Advanced Division D. Not sure it’s ever happened before.” Mallory holds her hands up to the class like she’s directing an orchestra, and leads them all in a small chorus of “ _Congratulations, Veronica_.”

It is embarrassing as _hell._

“And I’m pretty sure she’s the only one who’s actually _danced_ since June, so, lo siento my friends, I’m about to kick your butts.”

 

 

 _That Bitch Mallory_ wasn’t wrong. By lunch Veronica is hungry enough to actually _eat_ something, but it sits on top of a sour stomach lining, and she regrets it immediately. Piz isn’t much better. She swears he’s going to pass out at any moment he looks so ashen. In the afternoon session, everyone’s sweating by four minutes in, and the room takes on a funky, irritable atmosphere.

“ _No, no, no, no!_ ” Mallory is shouting, making even the piano player in the corner huff with frustration. “It’s tombé, glissade, pas de bourré, jeté, coupé, balloné, **step** , jeté.”

Veronica is panting, not even sure where she went wrong, not sure she can even _do_ the steps again let alone remember the order. She’s sure – Mallory is trying to kill them.

“ _Veronica_ , come on.”

She wishes she hadn’t eaten lunch. She wishes she hadn’t eaten lunch. She wishes she hadn’t ignored that text from her dad.

Veronica takes a spot on the floor, trying to ignore how pale and sweaty she looks in the mirror, tries to ignore the thirty-odd pairs of eyes all watching her from against the back wall. She is not the best among them. Not by a long shot. They must all think that she’s there as a joke – as a fucking joke – just to show them that they have nothing to fear because this girl was the best over the summer but she’s really _nothing_ so try harder damn it –

_Stop!_

The pianist gives her a few notes for intro, and then she’s off, springing through the steps. It maybe takes all of ten seconds, really, but it feels like so much longer, and at the very end, her very last jeté, she makes eye contact in the mirror with this tall guy in the back who’s _smirking_ at her. And she trips on the landing.

“Nice, Veronica,” Mallory starts. “Well, until the obvious.” Veronica is totally humiliated, and she glares at her shoes to avoid blaming the world…to avoid glaring at that guy, the guy whose life she might now have to ruin.

“ _Logan_ ,” Mallory says, and Veronica looks up, seeing the smirker come to place she started. _Shit._ “Come on. _Don’t_ show off.”

“Mallory,” he – it sounds like he _hums_ her name, and that is insane, maybe he always says names like that – more insane is that he’s _barely_ out of breath. “It’s like you don’t even know me.”

The piano player gets ready while Logan assumes the position on the floor. He’s – she’s noticed him, this guy (Logan), mostly because he seems to be the king to Jackie’s queen of that group she tries so hard not to focus on. He’s handsome and tall and built like he’s been dancing all his life, like his body is one hundred percent muscle, but he’s usually got this dismissive little grin on his face, like none of it matters, and it’s so amusing to him that they’re all trying so hard.

And he _smirks._

The music starts, and the humor drops from his body. Veronica’s eyes go wide as Logan flits through the routine with ease. Unconsciously they’d all been trying to decide who was best in class all day, maybe too consumed by their own work to really take stock. But now Logan’s social status makes total sense. So what if he smirks; apparently he’s earned the right.

She’s seriously about to clap after the last jeté when he keeps going, the pianist startled into trying to catch up to _Logan_ ,  and Veronica realizes that they’re only in the beginning of a much larger piece, and that Logan knows all the steps by heart. It’s so damn impressive, really, until – he pivots, trying to find purchase with a demi-pointe for a second, and he stumbles.

There’s a nervous release of laughter, the only indication that everyone had been holding their breath.

And here’s the thing: he should be happy, but Logan looks…he looks _furious_. The scariest thing is that he looks pissed mostly at himself.

“That’s what you get for being a slacker all summer,” Mallory starts, clearly enjoying being able to rib him. Veronica doesn’t miss the way his eyes light up a little bit.

“Okay, guys!” Mallory starts up again. “It should be easy now! Formations!”

 

 

 

“That’s it. I’m dropping out.”

Veronica understands his pain. Literally. Parked on a couch in one of the main living areas, thick layer of sweat now a wet blanket to her flushed skin, Veronica’s not sure her muscles are capable of function anymore. She has to pee. It would be too much effort to get up and actually do it.

But – day one, she’s finally exposed to the competition she’s working with, and it’s…terrifying.

“We should probably go over that routine again.”

“Veronica. Are you crazy? Have you gone _insane?_ My feet will literally fall off if I take one more step.”

She lets the comment go, knowing that they’ll be back in the studio because Piz has proven to be a benevolent pushover so far. A thought flits through her mind, bunching her forehead just a little as it goes, because she’s insufferably curious by nature and has a hard time letting things go. She’s remembering the exchange between Mallory and that guy – Logan.

“Hey, what’s that guy Logan’s deal?”

“Logan _Echolls?_ Uh, naturally embodying the human asshole? Not sure. Maybe he’s born with it, maybe it’s Maybelline.”

His animosity surprises her. “Oh, jealous maybe?”

Piz leans up on an elbow to look at her. “The day I’m jealous of Logan Echolls is the day I _do_ drop out of school.”

She frowns with some consternation, and Piz sighs.

“He’s a career.”

She tries not to laugh. “What, like, The Hunger Games?”

“ _Exactly_ like The Hunger Games. Him and his friends have been going here since puberty. This is their whole life.”

She lets that information sit in her head, trying to imagine Logan, Sean, hell, even Dick as kids who _willingly_ signed up for ballet, and who have…committed to it.

Because people go to SAB for one reason, and one reason only: to sign a contract with the New York City Ballet. If you don’t get accepted there, you try for other companies: San Francisco, maybe Paris, maybe Bismarck North Dakota – it doesn’t matter, because everyone is there to get into New York City Ballet. At least in a normal high school there are hundreds if not thousands of different colleges to apply to, and senior year is fraught with desperation to get into _something_ , get accepted to _some school_. But at SAB…there are maybe forty students every year, competing for anywhere between two and twelve spots in the one place you all want to be. And you don’t even get to pretend that you’re not all there for the same thing; that your classmate isn’t your _direct competition_.

It’s really not unlike The Hunger Games at all.

“Alright,” Veronica grunts, moving to get onto her feet. They’re aching with rebellion already, and she knows the blister on her heel has reopened. “Let’s just go for half an hour.”

Piz groans, and follows her.

 

 

 

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

It’s a small miracle that they survive the first week.

“Hey, what school are you going to?”

She and Piz are at CVS getting snacks so they can put off as many trips to the cafeteria as possible. She’s stumbled into the school supply aisle, and it’s reminding her that she’ll be starting at a new school in just a few days. She’d almost forgotten.

“PPAS,” he calls from the next aisle. “You?”

At least there’s that. “Same,” she echoes.

Piz pokes his head into her aisle, a full basket of junk food at his side. “Sweet. Poor kids unite.”

She wants to correct him – poor kids is a relative term, considering the fact that they live in New York City and go to a freaking ballet school, scholarship or not. Add to that, ballet…well, it might be presigious, but it’s not like you become a dancer for the money, necessarily. You go into it because you can’t help but dance, because you literally can’t survive without it.

Case in point: they dance all the way back to their dorm.

“So, tell me,” Veronica starts, working through her can of _the champagne of beers_ which Piz has secured with his (arguably terrible) fake ID. Piz shoves a handful of potato chips into his mouth and speaks around them.

“Tell you what, how I manage to keep my hair so beautiful?”

“No, goof, the whole – _danseur_ thing.” They’ve started saying _danseur_ and _ballerinaaa_ in these theatrical ways that help relieve the tension, just in case they never make it as either. Piz swallows somewhat painfully.

“Oh, pretty standard. Little sister, lords a leaping, boobies. You?”

She wishes his story was a little more dramatic. She takes another slug of the watery beer.

“My mom was really into it.” She tries not to make eye contact with Piz, but Piz is watching a Hulu commercial for feminine razors so she’s not really sure he’s listening.

“Yeah?” Maybe he was. He grins at her. “Bet you were a cute little six year old.”

“You know it.”

“Little Veronica Mars, ballerinaaa in the making.”

“More like wee waddling Veronica Mars, not doing so great at team sports when me and my dad were moving around a lot.”

“Shit, Veronica, way to get dark.”

“What can I say, I was made to be the Black Swan.”

“You do know that the Black Swan dies like, tragically, right.”

“Yeah but she looks awesome doing it.”

They clink beers.

In a totally weird way, Piz reminds her of her dad. He’s a good guy and it’s easy to be around him, and he’s not super demanding of her attention or affection. Which reminds her, really – Veronica picks up her phone, looks down at the keypad, fingers the buttons.

Her dad’s always had this cute, stoic, “this is my daughter and she does fucking ballet” vibe when it comes to support, always the reliable fixture in the fifth row engaging the other dance moms on a weird, superficial level. It probably wouldn’t matter to him what she chooses to do with her life, but she always loves it, it’s her favorite thing, when she comes home with good news ( _I got the part. I’m advancing to the next corps. I nailed my solo_ ) and that he always calls her a _fighter_.

That girl’s a fighter, that Veronica Mars.

 

 

 

 

“Piz we’re going to be _late_.”

“I know I know I know,” he apologizes, shoving stuff into his backpack almost at random. It’s still hot as hell in New York, and they’re sweating by the time they’re twelve blocks across town. They manage to secure seats, albeit near the back, and it’s not until she’s sitting in the hard plastic chair, putting stuff onto a hard plastic attached desk, that the nerves really dump into her stomach, and again it hits her – she’s transferred to a school 3000 miles away from home just for her senior year, and what kind of idiot just _does that_.

“Welcome,” their teacher says, directed at Veronica and Piz. “Glad you could make it. Class, here are some of our SAB students for the year. Make friends. They could get you free tickets to the Lincoln one day.”

Veronica’s sure none of the kids here would be interested, but then she looks around. Public Performing Arts School lives up to its name. But wait - _some?_

The door opens with a loud crack, which is a shock because class has already started. More shocking though?

Logan Echolls walks right through the door.

“Oh _shit_ ,” Piz is whispering, sinking low into his seat, hand over his face. “I forgot about that.”

Veronica gives Piz a probing look. She was sure that moneyed Echolls would be at the ultra-expensive, ultra-private Professional Children’s School. Piz catches her gaze, mouths _kicked out_ to her unspoken question.

Veronica leans back in her seat and looks up at the board. Huh. Weirdly, it makes a lot of sense.

 

 

After English they’re expected back at SAB for Dance Technique. It seems pretty stupid not to walk together, so Veronica calls out to Logan when the bell rings.

“Hey, wait!”

He turns, looking anticipatorily reluctant. Which is, okay. She’s willing to overlook the possibility of friendship with Logan because Piz seems so adverse, but – still.

“Don’t tell me you plan to have us walk behind you the whole way.”

Logan examines her closely, and Veronica has the distinct impression that she’s falling short somehow. Maybe literally? The quip is on the tip of her tongue, but then he’s looking at Piz.

“Yeahhh,” he drawls. “No.”

She blinks. “Excuse me?”

“Yeah I said no thanks lady. I only associate with winners, and I’ve got enough friends.”

She’s poleaxed for a moment, just, totally gob smacked, and he uses the opportunity to turn and leave.

Veronica turns the moment the door closes behind him.

“ _Someone’s_ really gunning for Miss Congeniality.”

Piz is frowning at the back of him.

“I told you. Walking embodiment of the human asshole.”

 

She’s in an off mood all through her first all-girls dance class with Miss Dent. But, joke’s on the asshole – she’s never danced so well.

Jackie even approaches her at lunch. Her arms are crossed, she still has that begrudging expression on her face, like it’s some big inconvenience to have to talk to other people, when she says: “Yeah. Okay.”

It’s as glowing an endorsement as any.

It still doesn’t mean they’re friends.

 

After lunch it’s back to public school. It’s piss-poor luck again; Logan is sitting in the back of her physics class, and Piz is somewhere else taking history. She pretends she doesn’t even see The Asshole, walks to the front of the room, and picks a lab table with a normal-looking person already there. The girl’s got headphones in, but she takes them out when she sees Veronica, and Veronica suddenly remembers her manners.

“Hey, will I get cooties if I sit here?”

The girl smiles a shy, friendly smile.

Cindy ‘Mac’ Mackenzie goes to PPAS on a French horn scholarship and doesn’t want to talk about it. She likes French movies better.

 

 

  1. _take these broken wings and learn to fly_



 

Veronica’s life feels like a bad montage by the time it’s October. Between school, dance, terse conversations with her dad, and New York City – it just seems like every moment is an alien experience, and it goes by in a blur.

She emails Wallace once or twice a week. _How’s Neptune? Neptune – how’s New York! happy birthday, sorry I missed it, hey we’re making headway on – I don’t want to know._

Piz and Mac turn out to be great friends to have in a big scary city. She knows that Wallace and them would get on like gangbusters and that makes it even better. They start crafting private jokes, going to the movies on Sundays, trying to sneak backstage at the Lincoln for five-second performances that always end in hysterical laughter and admonishment from security or staff.

Logan is referred to as “the asshole” until the one time he overhears them and can probably figure out that they’re talking about him. From then on he’s “Maybelline,” or just _danseur_ – spoken with a thick, harsh accent that is actually probably nothing like him.

 

She knew it was coming.

 

 

 

“Okay, okay,” Landry is saying.

“You guys have done enough corps work during the week. It’s time for the pas de deux.”

“ _Fuck, me_ ,” Sean says, to no one’s surprise.

“We’ll start next week with lifts just to see where you’re at. Then we’re going to assign you a partner, and with this partner you’re going to rehearse a pas de deux of your choosing in your own time. Think of it like a final exam. Where you take it is up to you, whether it’s arrangement, choreography, whatever. We’ll do a performance right before winter break for any parents who want to show up but – I’m sure I don’t have to remind you that we’ll be casting for the Student Workshop in January, so. I’m looking to be impressed.”

Veronica swallows a hard lump. She glances around the room, trying to decide who she hopes she’ll be paired with. Piz is an obvious choice, he would be easy to work with and wouldn’t mind if she took the lead. Her gut churns, wondering if she could stomach being paired with Logan.

And then she wonders if she could stomach being paired with anyone at all.

 

 

“Piz I need you to touch me.”

“Uh. What?”

She’s biting her lower lip. They’re huddled in his room again on a Friday night watching TV, and she knows she has to do something about their class the next morning. She’s waited long enough already, somehow with this delusion that a week will suddenly erase what a year and a cross-county move hasn’t.

“Look, I don’t want to talk about it, I just need you – I need you to touch me.”

“What, like a hug? We hug Mac all the time.”

“No, not like – not like Mac. Like – look, can you do it or not?”

He’s staring at her blankly.

“Veronica, I don’t get it.”

“Forget it.”

“No, I’m totally open to helping, I just don’t really know what you – “

“ _I said_ …forget it.”

She knows he sort of understands, when she is so tense all through Saturday’s class that she’s almost white with the effort of being paired with some guy her own height, that with every lift she grimaces and that Landry just thinks she’s cramping. She knows that Piz isn’t going to mention it, when she sprints to the bathroom as soon as they’re dismissed, and she vomits, loud and wretched, over and over. When she comes back, he’s just pure unspoken concern, willing to write it off if she wants him to.

Maybe he thinks that she’s sick just because she was performing so terribly. Just because Landry was so critical of her technique.

 

 

She should’ve tried harder.

Veronica is staring at the list posted in the hall with open horror. It’s not supposed to be a statement of everyone’s talent but _everything’s a statement_ – Logan and Jackie are paired together right at the top. It’s sick. It’s awful.

Her name is right at the bottom.

And she’s paired with Dick Casablancas.

Dick, who is regularly ridiculed for not giving a shit, who never works out, who would sooner grope someone than help them stick a landing. It's really no secret that he's considered the worst dancer there. Which can only mean.... Oh god. She _is_ sick. She is going to be _sick_.  What's even worse is that everyone knows, knows that she's going to be sick because she's literally just been ranked worst - _oh no_. Oh no. She can't look anyone in the eye, not a single god damn person. Someone tries to touch her arm but she's sure it's Piz and she wrenches her arm away. She physically cannot be comforted in that moment because then she'd have to let someone see her cry. Unacceptable. 

She doesn’t care that it’s childish.

She runs.

 

 

Veronica is staring out at the cafeteria. Her heart is beating just a little faster than normal; it’s nerves, or adrenaline, or something. Piz is sitting by himself, his back to her…she hasn’t spoken to him since it happened. But she’s not here for him.

The one she wants finally stands, grabbing all his stuff in a rush to catch up with his friends. _Good_. He’s just starting to jog after them when Veronica pushes off the wall. He doesn’t see her coming, which is another good. Walking perpendicular to him, she grabs his arm, dragging him forcefully in her direction.

“ _Whu--?_ ” he splutters, and she ignores him, not stopping until she’s out of the line of traffic, and she can stop, shoulders hunched, pulse hot in her veins, and turn to him.

“Can I help you?”

She’s confused for a split second. Then she glares.

“Is that some kind of a joke?”

“Joke? Yeah, yeah, sorry, sure. Uh. You’re – Becky, right? And I – I owe you…money…”

“ _Veronica_ , and – ” she considers for a moment, decides to be decent, wonders how much he would hand over before questioning whether he _actually_ owed her money, decides to be decent again. “No.”

“Oh right. Uh.”

She gives up on him.

“We’re dancing together? Pas de deux?” Just saying the words requires effort. She looks over her shoulder just in case someone is watching. Logan and his friends have figured out their friend is missing, and are huddling amicably maybe twenty feet ahead; enough to be out of earshot, but closer than she’d like. Her shame feels way too visible, and she avoids their eyes.

She hates that Logan is good friends with her dance partner. She hates that he’s right there, and he can see her in this moment…this moment, which she can credibly rate as one of the lowest of her life.

It’s not like she likes the guy. She doesn’t, at all, but…he’s the best dancer there. It might even better if he _was_ openly mocking her, because then she could rightfully explode at him. It would go a long way to reclaim some of the dignity she wants to scrape off the floor.

“Riiight,” Dick is drawling, distracted by something in the air. It’s obvious he’s not really listenting. “Riggght right right right right right.”

She huffs with frustration. After some discussion (read: actually none) and maybe just to get him to stop saying _right_ a million more times, he agrees to a tweak of Petipa’s Rose Adagio from _Sleeping Beauty_ because she knows Dick will be able to do it, that the steps are easy enough for him to memorize, that a fucking _wooden plank_ could fill in for him if he decides to call in sick. It doesn’t matter that it is considered one of the most technically difficult pieces for any ballerina in the history of female dance. That it is so outrageously advanced that she’s never even attempted it.

She is going to end up in Bismarck North Dakota, and it will be no one’s fault but her own.

 

 

 

 

 

 

  1. _into the light of the dark black night_



 

The room is dark and almost silent.

And Veronica is about to _rip off her fucking foot._

Tears of frustration swell in her eyes – _forward back forward back forward **back!**_ – trying, _demanding_ that it start behaving like it’s supposed to, like she desperately _needs it to_ – like if she just warms it up enough it’ll finally behave, finally make her move like she _needs -_ _forward back!_ Her vision is cloudy, desperate tears borne of thinking about her father, all his hopes for her future, all his hard work just to get her there, and for _what_ – for fucking _nothing_ – because her **_god damn feet won’t do a fucking glissade!_**

She screams through her teeth then, music blasting in her head, and she fucking _explodes_ into the routine, her arms and legs flying in a series of mindless muscle control, her toes and her muscles _screaming_ in pain but she doesn’t care – it doesn’t matter – because if she doesn’t do this she’s finished, she’s out, and then what – **_then what_** – then you’ll go back to _Neptune?_ Then you’ll go back to your father, and your friends, and to – to fucking _him?_

**“ _No!_ ”**

It bursts from her then, just combusts from her vocal cords, and she stops, mid-spin, ankles sliding apart as she holds her head in her hands and tears at her hair.

And that’s when she realizes – she’s not alone.


	3. Chapter 3

She gasps, all at once, like the air is liquid nitrogen and it’s frozen her insides.

“Nice.”

It’s unfair that she’s still panting because all she wants to do is run, but her lungs and her heart and her brain demand oxygen, and it’s in deference to them that she mutters a weak but ardent _“shit_ ,” with the heaving ribs. Furious tears burn the backs of her eyes, and she vigorously holds them back. She feels light headed (oxygen is not getting to her fast enough), her muscles are on fire. _Crawling_ away might be too difficult in that moment.

“You’re still barely above average.”

She’s still breathless. She glares at him, _hard_ , and it is fucking difficult to pull off.

“Thanks – “ she gasps. “Thanks for your support.”

Logan starts walking through the studio, insouciant, looking around as if almost curious to see the surroundings without the benefit of the overhead lights. He’s in jeans and a jacket like he’s just come in from a night out, and – he probably has.

“It’s not totally your fault. You’re too _short_. I can’t crawl through the tubes at jungle gyms anymore; I’ve learned that, I’ve come to accept it.”

She wishes she could corral her breathing enough to offer some retort. As it is, she’s stuck gasping while he pontificates on her shortcomings.

“You’re a _shrimp_. You shouldn’t even be dancing. Everyone knows that they always cast Clara with an _actual_ child.”

“And the Mouse King dies in Act I.”

He looks at her then, bemused. She expels a breath and turns away, shoulders still rolling with exertion.

“Look,” she starts. “I don’t know how you found me, or why you’re even here, but I’ve never asked for your help and I’m certainly not going to beg for it now.”

She turns back around, and Logan is suddenly right in front of her, and she jolts back, an automatic glissade en arrière, and fear floods her insides because she remembers that no one else knows where she is and he is between her and the fucking exit.

“Why are you even here.”

“Here, what, in the studio?” she resorts automatically to sarcasm. “On the planet? Let me explain something about the birds and the bees – you might want to sit down for it.”

He smirks. “No seriously why are you even dancing.”

“Not sure I owe you an explanation.”

“You’re never going to make it. Not sure why you’re trying so fucking hard.”

“Not sure it’s _your business_.”

“And yet I’m asking.”

This is where she’d customarily say _fuck you._

And she doesn’t.

“Because I’ve been short since I was fucking thirteen years old. You don’t think I noticed, when I showed up to class the minute puberty hit, and all of a sudden the idiots who could barely keep up with me were suddenly better for _no fucking reason except length?_ You don’t think I thought that was bullshit? So yeah, I worked my ass off. I’m not sure you’ve heard of it. But I worked so fucking hard that my vertical leap was _just_ as high as theirs, and then, you know what? My vertical leap was fucking _higher._ ”

He’s still smirking. The _fuck you_ is higher in her throat now.

“You don’t lean your weight right on the pique.”

Her face screws up.

“Ex - _excuse me?_ ”

“Your pique. You’re not tall enough to be leaning your hips back like that. It’s why you can’t transition to the glissade.”

She still can’t comprehend that he’s saying something to her that isn’t _you suck, you’re an idiot, you’re an easy fail and I’m going to murder you._

She must look as if she’s incapable of speech, so he takes a step forward, intimacy not even an issue, and grabs her hips. She flinches hard, nausea bolting through her, but he holds her, fingers digging in, making some stupid frustrated noise through his teeth.

“Just – stop it. Sit still,” he orders. She pants hard through her nose. He really doesn’t seem to care. She finally doesn’t move, contenting herself with the fact that she has rock hard quadriceps and Logan’s not wearing a cup. “Great. Now, do a damn pique.”

She glares at him, feeling like she’s going do a damn pique right into his nuts, but then the fight leaves her all in a rush, flows right into her clenched fists. Whatever. Fine. It’s just a fucking pique. Fucking piques coming up. It’s not hard. She can do this. Veronica lifts onto her toes, invisible music in her head, and moves, turning as Logan moves around her, watching her legs. His fingers squeeze and she opens her eyes.

“Yeah, see, there, you turn and your hips bend too much. Stable upper body. Keep it together.”

“ _Keep it together?_ Not sure I read that in the Balanchine tutorial.”

“This is the _Logan_ aesthetic. So. Keep it together.”

The nausea abates some, helps her keep a stupid grin tickling her cheek in check. She does the move again. Three more tries, three more “ _No, wrong,_ ”s and she finally doesn’t stutter on the transition. She finally turns, like a ballerina in a music box, body one piece of machinery of muscle.

“Yeah,” Logan mutters, softly, and her stomach tightens. He’s very fucking close. She steps away, and he lets her.

“Thanks,” she says, fingers again balled into little fists. “Glad to know you’ve been paying such close attention to my hips.”

“Yeah, well. When duty calls.”

She doesn’t say anything. Stands there awkwardly, staring at him, waiting for him to say something instead. Logan’s looking around the room again, at the moon and city lights glinting off the wall-length mirrors.

“Do you come here a lot?”

She’s not sure why he’s still talking to her but she’s anxious for him to leave.

“No, not a lot.” And then, because she’s apparently an idiot: “Only when I can’t sleep.”

“Yeah those pas de bourrees can keep you up at night,” he muses, still looking around the room. A thought strikes her.

“Wait, what are _you_ doing here?”

He stares at her pityingly, and she realizes it’s a dumb question.

“Uh. Nuclear fission.”

It’s a dumb answer, because of course he’s only there for one reason, there’s only one reason anyone would come to an empty studio in the middle of the night and it’s not to examine their pores.

“Right,” she says aloud. “I’ll give you the room.”

“Oh, I don’t _care_ ,” he starts. “Shit it’s hard to do nuclear fission on my own.”

She _actually,_ almost grins then. Like he’s a real person who makes jokes. She frowns at him instead.

“Yeah well I wasn’t exactly looking for an audience.”

“You want to be a ballerina and you don’t think you want an audience?”

She looks at him closely. “Is that why _you_ want to be a ballerina? For the audience?”

“I want to be a ballerina for the tutus.”

 _Tsk_. “You should ask Miss Dent for a reassignment then.”

He snorts some laughter through his nose. Veronica licks her dry lips.

“Why _do_ you want to be a ballerina then?”

“I told you,” he says, and he’s only a few feet away, so he takes a few steps closer, and she holds her breath, and he plucks a little at her leotard, and damn if her face doesn’t warm a little,

“It’s for the tutus.”

 

 

She’s still thinking about that the next day, distractedly doing foot stretches in her room while getting ready for a double feature of _Terminator Genisys_ and _À bout de soufflé_. Jackie’s already out, had something to do with her dad on a Sunday morning, so it’s just Veronica, alone in her room drinking coffee, thinking about what Logan said right before she’d dashed out like damn Cinderella at the stroke of midnight. She wonders whether she actually dropped a shoe, like some symbol of her delicate pride.

She probably shouldn’t have slapped him.

But he can’t really fault her for her excellent display of muscle control.

 _Why_ Logan does ballet is still a mystery to her. Everyone else she has figured out: girls are easy, obvious, princess fantasies on steroids. Dick has a younger brother a few years below who he’s very competitive with. Sean is competitive by nature, and Luke likes watching Dick in his tights. But Logan…he’s the anomaly, and it’s been bugging her from day one, and more so now, that she can’t get to the bottom of it.

It’s her own fault she was raised by a cop.

 

 

It’s midweek when she decides to risk going back to the studio. Jackie is sound asleep, headphones in her ears blasting Stravinsky, but Veronica is restless.

Her dumb version of a go-bag is already by the door, and she wore leggings and a t-shirt to bed, so it’s not difficult to sneak into the halls. Everything is quiet as she makes her way to the stairwell, quieter still as she pads up to the top floor. When she gets to the practice floor, though –

Music is playing from her studio.

And she has a pretty good idea of who is listening to it. Anyone else in her shoes would turn back, but –

_She’s a fighter, that Veronica Mars._

Pangs of _I should call my dad_ guilt swim deep in her gut as she gets closer to the end of the hall, where the music is coming from. At least he wasn’t dumb enough to turn all of the lights on, which is something, though it’s not going to save him from being yelled at by her.

“What the _fuck_ do you think you’re doing?” she shouts, and she gets the satisfaction of throwing him off guard mid-barrel leap.

“ _Fucking, fuck shit hell_ ,” he curses, barely grasping a landing. He straightens, breathing hard, working through it. “I could’ve broke my fucking foot, you know!”

“This is my fucking studio. You don’t come here! You haven’t been here all semester!”

“ _Your_ studio? Bitch, this is your first year. You haven’t even _rented_ this studio. I _own this place_. I’ve put up furniture, I’ve got a fucking _mortgage_.”

“I don’t see your name anywhere!”

“Do I see Veronica Fucking Mars anywhere either?”

She is raging mad, glaring at him, and he’s glaring back just as fucking hard.

“The music is a fucking mistake. You’re going to get us caught.”

“ _Us?_ Honey. There is no us. There is me, and there is you leaving.”

“Like hell I’m going anywhere!”

“Fuck! Fine. How much is it going to cost.”

“ _Excuse me?_ ”

“I have the cash. Name a price.”

“Fuck you.”

“I kind of feel like I could get you out with a twenty.”

“ _Fuck. You._ ”

He shrugs. “Jeez, fine, but I’m not going to enjoy it.”

She stops short. Eyes wide. She wants to shout _fuck you_ at him again and then realizes she doesn’t know any better insults. Embarrassment flares hot and heavy through her body and she spins on her toes.

“Hey! Wait!” she can hear him following her but she doesn’t stop, but he’s running and she’s walking and he catches her at the door.

“I was joking.”

He clearly wasn’t. He’s grinning.

“Look, you want to use this studio fine, there’s room enough for two.”

She glares. “There are other studios.”

“None that I pay to keep unlocked.”

That stops her again. “You – what?”

“What you think it was a coincidence that this heavily fortified building just _happened_ to have an open door? To the senior dance studio?”

“That’s – that’s ridiculous.”

He shrugs again. “Worse things to spend money on. There’s really no point owning a Lamborghini in this city.” He looks at her closely, eyes serious. “Doesn’t mean I don’t have two.”

Again, that tickle, in the back of her throat, like she wants to laugh. She drops his gaze. So he pays to keep this studio open at night, that’s not a surprise. She knows his dad is some hot-shit movie producer or something. And so what if he’s there while she does her own work, what does she care, really? It’s not like he can _insult her_. Not like he can make her a _worse dancer_ just by being around. She exhales explosively.

“Fine, whatever.”

“You’ll stay?”

“I’m awake anyway, aren’t I? And the hallway doesn’t have a barre.”

He smirks then, and she realizes how close he is. His arm’s almost touching her own, it’s almost touching her face where it’s bolted to the doorway blocking her exit. She swallows, and steps away, back into the room, and starts to warm up.

 

It’s hard to practice one half of a duet. She knows this already, but Logan notices too after awhile, that she’s sort of miming the parts where Dick should be holding her up, only holds a penché for a second before moving on.

“How’s Dick?”

It doesn’t make her stop going through the routine. Not at all. “Fine,” she grunts. Logan snorts disbelievingly.

“I know the guy’s my friend, but he’s a fucking awful dancer. He makes even you look like a principal.”

She stops then, makes eye contact with Logan through the mirror. “Maybe you should be getting him in here for practice then.”

“ _Psh_. I wish.”

Her expression changes, eyebrows raising with innuendo.

“Not like _that_.”

“Hey I don’t judge.”

“Look if you think I haven’t heard every fucking thing there is about being a gay ballet dancer from my – “

She doesn’t know how, but she knows he was about to say _my dad_ , and that is – something. Wow. Her eyes are open with honest surprise now, and Logan looks disgusted to see it.

“Whatever. Forget it.”

“I know you’re not gay.”

“I said, _forget it_.”

“It wouldn’t really matter if you were – “

“Okay – seriously?”

He turns around and skulks, heavily.

Veronica looks at the back of him. Licks her lips a little. Has no idea _why_ she’s going to say what she’s about to say. “Look, okay, I really could use some help with the – with the penché, alright? I could really use, uh – someone to – to steady me.”

He turns over his shoulder, looks at her carefully for a moment, wondering if she’s pandering or telling the truth.

“I’m never going to get it right practicing with a chair. At least you have movable parts.”

It’s an easy, low-ball insinuation, but it’s a terrible little relief when the corner of his mouth cracks with the hint of a smile. Veronica feels her stomach unclench. “Yeah, okay. It’s good practice for me too, I guess.” She nods and looks away, and Logan approaches her with forced casualness. Veronica holds her head up when he’s close enough to touch her.

“Rose Adagio from _Sleeping Beauty_ , Petipa chorey. You know it?”

He snorts. “Figures. Yeah I know it.”

She almost asks about Logan’s freakish memorization of all popular ballets, but she doesn’t really ask, because it’s just such a relief to finally have someone to dance the piece with. Piz has been consumed with his own, because him and Meg Manning aren’t the only ones in their class doing _Giselle_ , and it would’ve been selfish to ask for his time like that. But with Logan it’s easy, he’s already there, and if he’s kind of offering – well –

“Why don’t you like pas de deux?”

She almost falls off pointe. “What?”

“Pas de deux. Really any mixed work. Jackie says you’re like average in class but Saturdays you’re a fucking mess.”

She doesn’t meet his gaze. “Who says it’s not just you?”

He doesn’t talk while she slides into an arabesque, waits until she’s on her two feet again to continue. “It’s not. You totally changed when we started doing pas work.”

She looks at him out of the corner of her eye, falls into another deep penché. It’s probably only fair, maybe. It’s probably what she owes him in repayment for helping her practice. Maybe they’re just exchanging painful truths tonight.

“I was raped last year.”

If nothing else, it’s a bit impressive that he doesn’t just drop her immediately. The piece isn’t as athletically strenuous as others, just a lot of close, precise turns and tight muscle movements, so it’s not technically difficult to carry on a conversation. But he doesn’t answer all at once, and for the third person she’s ever told about it, he’s incredibly cool with the information. Wallace had been so heartbroken in his pity for her, Don Lamb had laughed in her face; she’d experienced both poles, so Logan probably couldn’t have upset her either way. But, his silence is…honestly, kind of…nice.

“This is where you tell me how much that sucks, and whatever,” she points out, dancing en pointe across the room.

“Figure you knew that much already.” He catches her eye. “Did you want to hear it from me?”

“No,” she answers, looking away.

She goes into another arabesque while Logan holds her fingers and turns her in a circle, while she balances on the toes of one foot. She knows that he’s looking at her, and she keeps her gaze fixed far away so she won’t fall. “I’m sorry, Veronica.”

She almost does, fall then, and it’s a relief when he’s all the way around and she sinks to the ground, and then her heartrate is increasing somehow, her breathing more shallow as Logan grasps her waist so lightly as she spins beneath his hands, and they move into the final position – and she can’t even hold the pose, she just drops it, stepping away, because her face feels warm, and it’s so confusing, and everything’s confusing.

“Thanks.”

“No problem.”

She’s looking at him too closely, and the room feels too small, and she can’t look anywhere else and she’s worried he feels it too, and – his eyes are so dark and –

“What’s your story,” she blurts out of nowhere.

His expression cracks, and the tension releases. _Fuck._ “My story?”

Veronica crosses her arms over her chest.

“Yeah.”

“It’s not worth telling. Pretty cliché.”

She tightens her arms over her chest and doesn’t look away. “As cliché as doing ballet so your deadbeat mom will come back and love you?”

“As cliché as doing ballet for just a _dead_ , mom.”

Her heart stops.

“Your mom – your mom’s dead?”

“Suicide to _Swan Lake_. I still fucking hate that one.”

Silence. “Oh, Logan.”

“I know.”

“Oh Logan – “ She doesn’t know what to say.

“I know _._ ”

Her blood is heavy and acrid in her veins. She really doesn’t know what to say. She sighs, holding his gaze.

“She should have picked something else then. That is fucking inconvenient.”

Logan looks at her for a long moment, face impassive, the silence stretching like punishment, until.

“Yeah,” he agrees, at a whisper.

 

It’s only when she’s safely back in bed, watching the sky lighten against the wall in her room, that she realizes how much they overshared in just a few short hours – was it even that long? It had almost seemed like a competition, in retrospect, one upping each other for worse lives, but – but it hadn’t, not really, and that’s the really distressing part.

 

Logan’s back the next night, and then he’s suddenly back every night.

For those first few weeks it’s all Veronica. What Veronica needs to work on, what Veronica’s not doing right, what she’s been taught wrong because of her obvious lack of height. Then suddenly Logan is asking for _her_ help, helping to fine tune _his_ Pas de deux, from the technically challenging and slightly risqué _Carmen._ It’s a good choice for him and Jackie; both will have an opportunity to showcase their own abilities, while still conforming to the assignment. Plus it has props, which is fun.

Veronica starts to worry that she’s betraying Piz, because she’s almost relying on the midnight sessions. Dick remains stubbornly elusive, and she keeps emailing him video links of the dance, trying to emphasize over and over how simple it is. She grabs him after class once or twice and they fumble through the movements, and it’s so fucking frustrating, until she’s doing the steps with Logan.

Then it’s easy.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just a reminder: I don't dance. Or I do, but only when drunk and/or at weddings. And even then, it's mostly a lot of finger pointing.

 

 

She’s walking back to her dorm one three-am in November when it happens for the first time.

It’s all still replaying in her head, the way she and Logan had really gotten into the characters of Carmen and Don Jose that night; tried to insert those stupid little under chin taps at odd moments during practice to throw the other off-balance. Oh you're trying to pirouette? Chin tap. Cabriolé more like  _chip tap_. It had worked better than it should’ve, and she’s still grinning at the memory of motor boating Logan’s belly. She hopes that none of the parents – that _her dad_ – will know what the hell’s going on when Logan and Jackie perform it.

And then she looks up, and realizes she’s not alone in the dark hall, and more than that – that she is not the only one attempting to _sneak back into her own room_.

Veronica holds Jackie’s hard gaze from half a hall away, and neither of them speak. Jackie is fully dressed, looking like she was recently out in the cold. Thoughts are spinning through Veronica’s head – chief among them what the fuck – but she doesn’t say anything, Jackie’s frigid stare letting Veronica know she’s not allowed to ask questions. Jackie passes into the dorm room without waiting for Veronica to follow, closing it quickly and quietly behind herself.

Veronica exhales a long breath.

Holy…holy _shit._

 

 

 

> _v. the dead of night_

 

“Hey, isn’t that the guy from our physics class?”

“Huh? Nathan Chow?”

“No, uh, the uh – whatever you guys call him. That guy.”

Veronica looks over. Piz does too.

“Oh god damnit. Just when I was starting to have fun, too.”

They’re at a Sunday afternoon showing of _The Mockingjay: Part 2_ , but the irony won’t hit Veronica until later. Logan and his friends have just entered the theater and are making a lot of noise despite the previews having already started, and a few theatergoers are shushing them already. Logan holds up his arms in mock surrender, and then everyone’s looking around the theater, and Veronica gets a sinking feeling, because – there are a few scattered seats just to Veronica’s side, and she’s pretty sure, that in this crowded theater, Logan and his friends are going to take them.

She should really start charging for her fortune telling services.

 _“God damnit god damnit god damnit_ ,” Piz mutters, watching as the guys point out the empty seats, watching as the girls pout, watching as everyone breaks up into little duos and trios to get the last seats in the house. Luke and Logan are heading right toward them.

“ _No no no no no no_ ,” Piz is continuing, and Veronica is on the verge of saying _Not sure it’ll help_.

Logan’s barely apologizing as he steps around people on his way down the aisle. New Yorkers are of course known for their politeness and patience, so he only has to fend off a few snide remarks.

And then he’s taking the seat right next to her.

And it should really freak her out more.

Piz’s mantra has morphed into a long, quiet stream of _fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck_. Veronica tosses another piece of popcorn into her waiting mouth, and waits for Logan to look up. He does – it’s a cursory, _I’m going to be using this armrest_ sort of glance – and then he does a double-take.

He doesn’t smile, really, because, well, why would he smile, but he’s thrown off guard and that’s something. Veronica, very carefully, doesn’t respond, as they hold a gaze for a moment, and then Logan opens his mouth to say something, and Piz is sunk way down in his seat like he’d been trying to _hide – hide behind Veronica Mars_ , and:

“Hi, Logan.”

Logan leans forward, finds Piz on Veronica’s other side, and frowns.

“Piznarski.”

Piz turns away in disgust.

“There are other theaters, you know.”

“In New York City? You’re kidding. More than one? I don’t believe you.”

“Fuck off, Echolls.”

Luke snorts from his other side, egging Logan on.

“Piz if you’re _jealous_ …”

“I’m _not_ , jealous, okay. Just shut up and watch the movie.”

“Since when did the movie have Captain America in it.”

“Don’t be a dick.”

“Oh so you are jealous.”

Logan is grinning, and he slides his gaze to Veronica.

Veronica’s not impressed.

Logan might be, er, her secret buddy and all, but she’s not going to pick him in a fight. She frowns at him, leans back, puts her head against the top of Piz’s. Logan stares at the two of them for a long, quiet moment, his face setting slowly like wet cement. Then he shakes himself out of it, frowns harder, and turns back toward the screen.

Veronica feels her stomach twist a little. She takes another bite of popcorn from her bucket, looks down at Piz from the corner of her eye, and sees him grumpily watching the movie as it starts. She’s never really asked _why_ they hate Logan so much, er, why Piz hates him so much and she hates him in solidarity, because every time she’s tried she gets dismissed by an influx of attitude. And that’s fine.

She sits back up before she gets a crick in her neck, and feels the frustration radiating at her from both sides.

She should probably ask what’s going on, but – for what? Would it really influence her choices at all? Piz is her friend, Logan is – well, sort of a friend, in the sense that he’s helpful and they have fun when they hook up at night. _Okay, phrasing_. She glances at Logan from the corner of her eye. He’s staring off into space, not even watching the movie.

He catches her looking, because, sure why not, but she keeps her expression impassive. She has an urge to share her popcorn. Logan’s glancing at her in this odd, fixated way, and she wonders if she’s responsible for his distraction from the film. She jerks her head at the screen, but he doesn’t look away. He doesn’t look away so she does, and she shoves some more popcorn in her mouth because he’s making her nervous.

He’s making her nervous and that’s super annoying, more annoying is that it’s interrupting her enjoyment of the movie, so she sighs a little through her nose. Doesn’t look at him. And then carefully – because – what the hell is she doing – she taps the underside of her chin with her thumb.

And she likes that it makes him grin.

 

 

Her life is then not just halved, but splintered: she has Neptune, with Wallace and her dad, and she has New York, with Piz and Mac, she has school and ballet class…and she has three am rendezvous in a mostly dark dance studio with Logan.

At first she’s _The Shrimp_. Then she’s _Princess_ , and when they’re practicing something touchy-feely, _Bobcat –_ or (her personal favorite) _El Tigre_. They don’t stick to one nickname, and it’s probably just as well. Veronica sticks to a theme though, just for consistency’s sake: _asshole_ , _jackass_ , even one day when she was feeling vaguely British he was _prick_ – you know. It goes. It works for them.

And they tap each other’s chin, the way Carmen and Don Jose do – it’s this little, knuckle or finger to the underside, tilt your face up with varying degrees of effort depending on availability and timing. Every time he manages to do it she wants to laugh.

And that’s still so weird.

 

 

 

And then, all of a sudden, it’s final’s week. It almost feels as if one morning she closed her eyes and the next day it was the second week in December. It’s time for final exams.

And Veronica wishes she hadn’t told her dad to come.

She knows he’s there, where he always in, fifth row like it’s his lucky spot or something, and she wishes she’d told him it was some other night, not tonight; that she could’ve just said she had to study for finals or something and she would fly back home by herself but – but he’d wanted to come, had wanted to see what her school was like, how she was getting along by herself in New York, and, and…parents were invited, after all. She just wishes he could be backstage with her, as she’s getting ready with her classmates, telling her everything was going to be okay.

Or at least stop her from punching Dick in the fucking face.

“Dick, are you – are fucking _drunk?_ ”

“No.” He hiccups.

Her stomach drops from her body. She’s not sure it exists anymore, which is probably a good thing, all things considered.

“You’re shitting me. You’re shitting me! _Dick!_ ” she seethes.

“I can do it. No big deal. Put my hand up. Put it down again. Walk in circles. Easy.”

“Yeah, until you have to _lift me above your fucking head_.”

“Whoa. What? I don’t remember that.”

She looks at him with abject horror.

“No I can totally do it. Look,” he says, and he scans the area, picks up a box, and holds it over his head. “No big deal.” He burps – loudly.

“Oh my god.”

She’s going to cry.

“We’re up in three minutes, Dick,” she adds, sadly, and she thinks – maybe it’s a good idea that her dad is in the audience for the winter recital, because this will surely be her last performance ever.

Across the stage, she sees Piz waiting in the wings. He’s staring at Hannah Griffith, who’s spinning in a flawless pirouette. She scans the rest of the right wing, and is a little surprised to see Logan over there, too. He and Jackie are closing out the show, just in case the rest of them sucked too much. And what is it? She doesn’t do anything, but Logan’s attention suddenly shifts in her direction, and then he finds her, and he must be able to gauge her expression, because he tilts his head questioningly, brow bunched as if he has some honest amount of concern.

Veronica pinches her lips, and shakes her head, fighting tears. _It’s nothing._

Logan rights his head again and frowns. _It’s hardly nothing_.

Veronica forces her shoulders to relax, forces herself to turn instead to watch Hannah, who looks just like a ballerina should, pale pink tutu, her body arched beautifully and elegantly as she flits through her routine with ease. Even if Logan was motivated to come find her on this side of the stage, and, something tells her, he might actually do it, it’s too late for him to do anything about it. It’s too late for him to change her fate, and it’s just her own god damn fault that she has to go through with it, and that her dad has to watch.

Applause escorts Hannah and her partner off stage, there’s the tiniest lull, and the music starts again. Veronica plasters a fake smile on her face and walks out, lights bright and burning her skin, but it doesn’t matter. She doesn’t wait for Dick to meet her on stage. Even if he doesn’t, she could probably do it herself, and what would it matter anyway? The intro plays into another bar, and she searches out of the corner of her eye to see if Dick is following her out. One more bar – that’s it – he’s not coming – her fate is sealed, it was sealed long ago, and she turns toward the far side of the stage, about to start a pas de une, when – her heart lurches – she sees Logan – _Logan_ – step into the light, and he’s smiling, just like he’s supposed to, and he’s gliding toward her with his hand outstretched.

Her heart starts _racing_. What? No. No! Logan – don’t do this, she wants to scream, but overwhelming it, suppressing it all, is the voice, the heavy voice, praying _thank you, thank you, thank you_.

And she realizes in this scene, it’s supposed to be the best day of her life, which is something she’s never appreciated before, has always been more caught up in the fact that it’s her birthday and her present is choosing one of four skeezy dudes to marry – but, it’s…she’s honestly never felt more elated. Her soul literally feels lighter than air, and it’s suddenly the easiest thing in the world to dance this routine, and she does it almost thoughtlessly, smile bright and beaming as if she’s honestly happy.

 

 

 

“Good job, kiddo.”

It’s probably the best three words she’s ever heard in her life, and Veronica launches herself into her father’s arms, squeezing him tight around the midsection.

“Whoa, whoa, now, where’s all the love coming from? I mean, I guess I earned it, lucky fifth row and all, but.” He gives up on the complaint, gives up trying to be reserved in the crowd, and drapes his arms around her. “You did good, kid,” he mutters into her hair, and Veronica feels like she might cry all over again. “And hey, here’s prince…uh, what’s his name.”

Veronica straightens up, looks behind her, finds Logan standing a bit awkwardly in the crowd. Where’s his family?

“You know? I’m not even sure the prince gets a name in Sleeping Beauty. How sexist is that.”

“Is it?” Veronica drawls, before sending Logan a small look. “It’s _Désiré,_ dad. His name is Prince Désiré.”

“Even worse.”

“Dad, this is Logan.”

“Logan! I thought I recognized you from that last one. _Carmen_ , right? Bit raunchy, wasn’t it?”

“Is it?” squeaks Veronica.

“Ah, Mr. Mars, teenagers don’t know about sex. That was all an elaborate ruse to steal each other’s wallets.”

Her dad _laughs_. “Yeah, well it about stole my wallet. Owchie, mama, is this city expensive. You know I paid seven dollars for an orange juice the other day? _Seven dollars._ ”

“Dad,” Veronica cautions, embarrassed. Logan t _wo Lamborghinis_ doesn’t seem to mind.

“Veronica!”

Piz is hopping towards her in the crowd. Veronica darts a glance at Logan, and he’s already walking backwards, getting swallowed up by the crowd.

“Popular tonight, eh?”

“Dad, this is – “

Piz ignores Veronica’s dad and instead grabs her roughly aside.

“What the fuck was that?”

She stares wide-eyed at her dad. Then Piz.

“What?”

“Logan! What the hell was that?”

“I – what are you talking about.”

“Are you shitting me?”

Veronica looks into Piz’s eyes, wondering what to say. He looks honestly a little betrayed.

 

 

 

 

 

“You gonna tell me what that was all about?”

Logan turns his gaze away from Veronica, and finds Jackie at his side. They’re well out of Veronica’s earshot, but he’s still a little apprehensive about where this conversation is going.

“Tell you what?”

She glares at him a little from the corner of her eye. “You know what. Everyone’s talking about it.”

“It’s no big deal. You were great, by the way.”

She snorts. “Don’t change the subject.”

They’re silent for a moment, both watching Veronica placate an irritated Piz, Veronica’s dad hovering awkwardly besides them trying not to get involved. Logan honestly considers going back over there just to give the guy something to do that isn’t listen to his daughter have the equivalent of a lover’s quarrel.

“You like her, huh.”

It should bother him more, that Jackie’s said it out loud. No, it shouldn’t bother him at all, that his heartrate increases, that he doesn’t say anything, that he can’t say anything because it’s true, and he’s known it for awhile.

She whistles a low harsh exhale. “ _Shit_.”

“Yeah.”

They’re silent for another half a minute. Veronica manages to calm Piz down and now they’re doing awkward introductions with Veronica’s dad.

“She really nailed the attitudes.”

“What, so you like your roommate now?”

She glares at him. “Not even Kendall Banks does the Rose Adagio without faltering on the attitudes. Holding yourself straight up on one toe with your arms above your head? Yeah. No.”

Logan swallows. “You’re better.”

“Don’t patronize me.”

“She’s tiny.”

“Oh stop.”

“I’m worried that I – “

He doesn’t finish it. It’s finished anyway, because he’s known Jackie for too long, she knows him too well, and her eyes widen at him, and for too long of a moment she doesn’t say anything.

“Logan…you idiot _._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End of part one.


End file.
